Three years Dora's senior, the Countess was dark, strikingly handsome,
an accomplished horsewoman, and accredited one of the smartest women in
Society. Wedded to an elderly peer, she flirted outrageously, and
always had one or two younger cavaliers in her train. Fyneshade was
scarcely ever seen with his wife, and many were the stories afloat
regarding the serious differences existing between them. Outwardly,
however, the Countess was always gay, witty, and brilliant. She
displayed exquisite taste, and men voted her "capital company." It is
true that beside her pretty women seemed plain and middle-aged, and
well-dressed women looked dowdy, but since her marriage she had become
just a trifle too smart for my taste.
Dora was no doubt pleased that her sister had taken me off, so that she
might exchange confidences with Jack, but I confess I was not one of the
drivelling crowd that admired Fyneshade's wife.
When I had known her at Blatherwycke, in the days before her
presentation, she had been as frank and merry as her sister, but since
her union with the Earl she had sadly changed, acquiring an
artificiality and a penchant for flirtation, apparently living only to
be flattered and admired. True, she moved in one of the most select
circles, and no really smart house-party was complete without her; but,
knowing her as intimately as I did, it was not surprising perhaps that I
had long ago arrived at the conclusion that her gaiety and recklessness
were feigned, and I felt some sorrow for her.
She was lounging back talking nonsense at the highest possible speed,
for ever exchanging greetings and salutations in the same breath, and as
I calmly contemplated her I wondered whether her domestic unhappiness
was the sole cause of the secret trouble which she strove to mask.
"Jack and Dora are really too absurd," she was saying, glancing over to
them. "They are childishly fond of one another, but what the result
will be I dread to think."
"The result? Why, marriage," I said laughing.
She shrugged her shoulders, causing the diamonds at her white throat to
sparkle, elevated her dark arched brows, and exclaimed:
"Of course Jack is popular, and has a fair income, and everybody likes
him, but Ma is absolutely determined that Dora shall marry a title."
"Which means a loveless union with an elderly husband, and no happiness
within her own home--eh?"
She looked at me inquiringly, and her lips quivered slightly.
"You are cruel, Stuart," she answered seriously. "You mean that I am an
illustration of the victim of a loveless marriage."
I nodded. Then I said: "We are such old acquaintances, Mabel, that I
feel myself permitted to speak candidly. I have watched you for a long
time, and I know that you do not, you cannot love Fyneshade; you are
unhappily married, and all the pleasure of life lies beyond your own
home. Gossips' tongues try to wound your reputation--well, that's not
my affair, but--"
"Gossips' tongues!" she echoed hoarsely. "What care I for the lies of
scandalmongers? True, men admire me, flatter me, and say pretty things
that please me, but surely I am mistress of my own actions? If I chose
to flirt with my coachman it would be of no concern to anybody except
Fyneshade."
"You misconstrue my meaning," I said quietly. "It was my intention to
ask you whether you would desire Dora to lead a life similar to yours,
or whether you would allow her to seek happiness with the man she
loves."
In hesitation she opened and closed her fan. At last, in a harsh,
strained voice, quite unusual to her, she answered:
"Now that you have spoken so plainly, Stuart, I am compelled to admit
the truth," and with a sigh she continued: "You are quite right when you
say that mine was a loveless marriage, but even you cannot imagine how
bitter is my misery. Once I was as happy as my sister there, and
believed that I could love a man as devotedly as she does Jack, but my
mother led me to believe that wealth brought love, and I sacrificed
myself to rescue her from her creditors. The result has been three long
years of wretchedness and duplicity, of sorrow, misery, and despair.
Wealth and luxury are mine, it is true, and my diamonds are the envy of
the feminine half of London, but--but I have no happiness, no object in
life, no love. I hate everything, and most of all I hate myself."
"And why do you hate yourself?" I asked sympathetically.
"For reasons known only to myself," she answered evasively. "Ah! you
little dream, Stuart, what a life mine is--at least, the life I am
leading now. Another year of it will kill me, or drive me mad."
"Am I then to understand by your words that there is truth in this
gossip about Prince Starikoff and yourself at Royat?" I asked
seriously.
She drew a deep breath and bit her lip. I saw I had approached a
delicate subject. Her words had aroused my suspicions that there was
some foundation for the scandal freely circulated regarding a fracas
that had taken place at the little French watering-place of Royat, a
month or so before, between Fyneshade and a Russian Prince named
Starikoff.
"You have no right, Stuart, to question me upon my private affairs," she
said frigidly. "_Les calomnies n'ennuient jamais_. I know the Prince,
it is true, but I had no intention that my words should convey the
meaning you choose to put upon them, and I have no wish that we should
pursue the subject further."
"I bow to your desire, of course," I said. "My sole object in speaking
to you thus was to urge you to plead Jack's cause with your mother. I
know well enough that Lord Wansford admires Dora, and that Lady Stretton
looks upon him with favour. But surely his is an unenviable reputation.
If you were a man I could speak more plainly, but to you I can only say
that I would never allow a sister of mine to become his wife. I would
rather see her marry an honest working man."
The Countess' seriousness suddenly vanished, and she laughed lightly as
she answered:
"I really believe that after all, dear old boy, you are in love with
Dora yourself. I know you used to be rather fond of her in the old
days, and am inclined to think that in reality you are Jack's rival."
"No, not at all," I said. "Bethune is my friend; so is Dora. I merely
desire to see them happy, and if I can save your sister from a life of
wretchedness with Wansford, I shall feel that at least I have acted as
her friend."
"Rubbish!" the Countess exclaimed impatiently. "Marriage nowadays is a
mere commercial transaction; very few people marry for love. An
affectionate husband is apt to be jealous, and jealousy is decidedly
bourgeois. Besides, Jack hasn't the means to keep Dora as she should be
kept. It would mean a red-brick villa in a remote suburb with a couple
of servants, I suppose. Why, she would leave him in six months."
"No," I said. "Surely love and sufficient to provide comfort is better
than loathing and thirty thousand a year! Scarcely a man in England or
America is better known than Jack Beaune."
"I was only aggravating you," she said with a tantalising smile a moment
later. "I quite admit the force of your argument, but to argue is
useless. Mother has set her mind upon Lord Wansford, and, although I
should like to see Dora marry Jack, I'm afraid there's but little chance
of the match--unless, of course, they throw over the maternal authority
altogether and--"
The words froze upon her lips. With her eyes fixed beyond me, she
started suddenly and turned deathly pale, as if she had seen an
apparition. Alarmed at her sudden change of manner, and fearing that
she was about to faint, I turned in my chair, and was just in time to
come face to face with a tall military-looking man who was sauntering by
with a fair, insipid-looking girl in pink upon his arm.
For an instant our eyes met. It was a startling encounter. We glared
at each other for one brief second, both open-mouthed in amazement.
Then, smiling cynically at Mabel, he hurried away, being lost next
second in the laughing, chattering crowd.
I had recognised the face instantly. It was the mysterious individual
who had met me at Richmond and conducted me to Sybil! My first impulse
was to spring up and dash after him, but, noticing the Countess was on
the point of fainting, I rushed across to Dora and borrowed her
smelling-salts. These revived my companion, who fortunately had not
created a scene by losing consciousness, but the unexpected encounter
had evidently completely unnerved her, for she was trembling violently,
and in her eyes was a wild, haggard look, such as I had never before
witnessed.
"That man recognised you," I said a few moments later. "Who is he?"
"What man?" she gasped with well-feigned surprise. "I was not aware
that any man had noticed me."
"The fellow who passed with a fair girl in pink."
"I saw no girl in pink," she replied. "The heat of this crowded room
upset me--it caused my faintness." Then, noticing my expression of
doubt, she added, "You don't appear to believe me."
"I watched him smile at you," I answered calmly.
"He smiled! Yes, he smiled at me!" she said hoarsely, as if to herself.
"He is the victor and I the vanquished. He laughs because he wins,
but--" She stopped short without finishing the sentence, as if suddenly
recollecting my presence, and annoyed that she should have involuntarily
uttered these words.
"Tell me, Mabel, who he is," I inquired. "I have met him before, and to
me he is a mystery."
"To me also he is a mystery," she said, with knit brows. "If he is your
friend, take my advice and end your friendship speedily."
"But is he not your friend?" I asked.
"I knew him--once," she answered in a low voice; adding quickly: "If I
remain here I shall faint. Do take me to my carriage at once."
She rose unsteadily, bade good-night to her sister and Jack, then taking
my arm accompanied me downstairs to the great hall.
It was an entirely new phase of the mystery that the Countess of
Fyneshade should be acquainted with my strange, sinister-faced
conductor. That she feared him was evident, for while there had been an
unmistakable look of taunting triumph in his face, she had flinched
beneath his gaze and nearly fainted. Her declaration that she had
recognised no man at that moment, her strenuous efforts to remain calm,
and her subsequent admission that he was her enemy, all pointed to the
fact that she was well acquainted with him; and although, as we stood
while her carriage was being found, I asked her fully a dozen times to
disclose his name or something about him, she steadily refused. It was
a secret that she seemed determined to preserve at all hazards.
When she grasped my hand in farewell she whispered, "Regard what I have
told you as a secret between friends. I have been foolish, but I will
try to make amends. Adieu!" Then she stepped into her carriage, and I
went up into the drawing-room in search of the mysterious dark-visaged
guest, whose appearance had produced such a sudden, almost electric
effect upon her. Through several rooms, the great conservatory, and the
corridors I searched, but could neither discover my strange companion on
that eventful night, nor the pale-faced girl in pink. For fully half an
hour I wandered about, my eager eyes on the alert, but apparently they
had both disappeared on being recognised.
Did this strange individual fear to meet me face to face?
Though my mind was filled with memories of that fateful night when I had
been joined in matrimony to my divinity, I nevertheless chatted with
several women I knew, and at last found myself again with Dora, "Jack,
lad," being carried off by our energetic old host to be introduced to
the buxom daughter of some Lancashire worthy.
Dora pulled a wry face and smiled, but we talked gayly together until
the soldier-novelist returned. Soon afterwards, however, old Lady
Stretton came up to us and carried off her daughter, while Jack shared
my cab as far as his chambers, where we parted.